


The Lovers, the Dreamers, and Me

by thalialunacy



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-06
Updated: 2010-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:32:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/pseuds/thalialunacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Chris has a crappy birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lovers, the Dreamers, and Me

**Author's Note:**

> **Summary** : Chris' birthday sucks. Until it doesn't anymore.  
>  **Contains** : Schmoop. Emo boyness. Quinto as deus ex machina. Abuse of italics and cheesy dialogue.  
>  **Disclaimer** : Obviously fictional content is FICTIONAL. Please, please don't sue me. And don't be hatin, we just like the fuckin.  
>  **Dedication** : To all you GQMFs, for making my 30th birthday palatable.

When he wakes up an hour before his alarm because he's having a dream that the fucking world has ended, he figures it can only get better from there.

Is he ever fucking _wrong_.

He's got vultures on him all day, from coffee to gym to getting fucking gasoline—the last one which, by the way, makes him late for his call. He's a grown man, a superstar, and he still can't remember to leave time to get fucking _gas_ in his car. Then Judy's clearly on the rag and/or in a snit with Jan because she tears into him for being late and then refuses to let him have a smoke during the intermission, instead regaling him with tiny technical details she usually lets slide, and she's acting _magnanimous_ about it and Chris is ready to hit somebody by the time the show's over.

Fucking Wednesdays.

He slams the stage door and doesn't look anywhere but in front of him. He's not thinking about how he has all the shit he ever thought he wanted but somehow it's still not enough. He's not thinking about all the shit he still wants to do, and how there's never enough time to do even a little bit of it.

And he's definitely not thinking about the fact that he's an hour away from turning thirty, and how he's utterly alone.

\---

It stands in the corner innocently, waiting for him as he gets home. So innocently he doesn't notice it until after he's peed and taken out his contacts.

He fwumps on to the couch, takes a long pull on his beer, then looks up— And there it is, a fucking _Breedlove_ , just sitting there, looking like it _belongs_ there. Audacious of it, really. "What the fuck…"

He heaves off the couch and approaches it slowly. He almost doesn't want to touch it, like if he does it'll just go _poof_ and he'll be left only with an empty apartment

Eventually he does touch it, though, because hello, _Breedlove_. He runs his fingers over it, slowly, feeling the graceful curve of the mahogany sides, the bite of the steel strings, the softness of the ebony (ebony! Jesus Christ!) bridge, and the—oh God he can't resist. He picks it up and leans over it, can't even wait to get to a chair, just smushes into it so he can play even just a little—And the sound is so lush, so plaintive and just fucking _present_ that he almost cries.

Then he notices the tag on it, dangling off one of the pegs:

 _It's Thursday where I am, so—  
Happy birthday, Pine_

It's Karl's handwriting.

He sits, then, because he can't seem to stay standing. He plays more chords, unthinking, nerves singing with disbelief and his heart fucking aching and it's poetic and shit and he swears he'll be manly in a second—

The he realizes what song he's slipped into, and the irony is so sweet, so ridiculous, and clearly it's going to be more than a second… _I've heard it too many times to ignore it, there's something that I'm supposed to be…_

He laughs until he's crying, sings until he's hoarse and his fingers hurt. Then he chainsmokes on the porch until he can't stand his own skin anymore, and then he gives up and crawls into bed. He very nearly drags the guitar in there with him, but luckily realizes it'd make a poor substitute for the real thing.

But if he sleeps with one hand under the pillow, clutching at a small card with illegible scribble on it, well, that's nobody's fucking business, is it?

\---

…except maybe one Zachary Quinto, to whose laughter he wakes up the next morning. Well, afternoon.

"Oh you're fucking kidding me," Chris grunts, rolling over and sliding his hand back under the pillow—only to jerk up when there's nothing there.

"Over heee-eeere," Zach singsongs, and when Chris turns his head he sees a blurry man-shaped form waving something around. He reluctantly shoves on his glasses, even though he already knows what awaits him.

Zach smirking, that's what awaits him. "Good to know I'm not the only fourteen year old girl around here, isn't it?"

"You're asking me because—"

"I'm not, it was rhetorical."

"You know, rhetorical doesn’t actually mean—"

"Shut up, Princess Thirty-Pants."

Chris falls back onto his pillow, pulls the covers up to his chin. "You shut up."

Zach rolls his eyes. "Okay maybe younger than fourteen." He stands. "Eight, possibly." He holds out his hand, and Chris scrabbles with the blankets in order to make a desperate lunge for the note—

But Zach easily pulls it out of his reach. And fucking _tsks_ him. "Ah-ah-ah!" he chirps, in a credible Julie Andrews impersonation. "Talk, then you can have it back."

Chris gives up—he's too old for this shit, anyway—and leans back on his elbows, scowling. "Talk about what." But he doesn't make it a question.

"About why you're wasting away here when you could be out enjoying being thirty, hot, and rich."

"I'm not wasting away."

Pointed Eyebrow. "Try again."

"I'm not. I’m taking the fucking morning off, you fuckwad, now go away."

Zach sits down again and sighs. Loudly. "I broke into your apartment last night, to deliver a present that you found so—so—" He gestures his way into the word. "— _significant_ that you slept with the accompanying tag _under_ your _pillow_ , and this is the thanks I get?"

Chris groans and throws the pillow at him, too fucking depressed to care that it means he's one pillow down. "What do you want?"

"A simple statement of admission, that's all."

"For shit's sake." Chris closes his eyes. "Okay, fine, genius, so maybe it's more than a mancrush. Is that enough for your little rainbow sparkle heart?"

Zach thinks for a moment. "I might get a toaster. So, yes." Then he stands, putting the pillow back under Chris' head and leaning forward to kiss Chris on the forehead. It's all very mother hen and Chris is warmed and annoyed at the same time. "Welcome to the club, baby. It's a shithole, ain't it?"

Chris looks up at him. "Wait, do you mean—"

"The Liking Boys Club, not the Liking Karl Urban Club. Although I have thought about applying for membership a time or two…"

Chris' look is not exactly full of understanding.

"…but thought better of it, whoa, don't go caveman on me." Zach puts his hands up. "Don’t shoot. Jesus, you've got it bad, don't you?"

Chris throws the blanket aside and stalks to the bathroom. He slams the door against Zach's "I'll take that as a yes!"

Before he's done peeing, though, a muffled voice comes through the door. "So I'll pick you up in an hour, okay?"

"Okay—Wait, for what?" Chris shakes off, pulls up, and opens the door, his brows drawn together.

Zach shrugs one shoulder. "Do you have plans with your family?"

Chris rubs the back of his neck. "No, they're... We're getting together in a couple weeks."

Zach nods, choosing wisely not to dwell on that obvious scab. "Your offering pleases me. I think you deserve a birthday lunch."

"And by lunch you mean—"

"We're taking over McCoy's until you can't walk straight, yes."

Chris waits.

Zach breaks first.

"Punny, aren't I?"

"Incredibly. Now get the fuck out my house. I'll see enough of your gay ass tonight."

Zach does a little wriggle as he walks to the door. "As tempting as that sounds, you only have eyes for one fine man ass, and it ain't this one."

Chris shrugs. "True. Sorry?"

"You'd better be. Back in a bit."

\---

Chris sets down his third beer to the sound of Zach saying, "…so he's all hot for doctor."

Chris stands up again but Zach pulls him back down. (And where would he go, anyway?) John is eyeing him, an ultra-knowing look on his face. "Ah, that makes sense. I always thought they were incredibly awkward around each other."

Chris turns to Zach. "You _told_ him?"

Zach puts a hand to his heart. "Asians keep secrets well!"

Chris turns to John. "Please tell him he's a raving lunatic."

John nods. "He is. He's also right."

Zach nods and makes a 'See?' face. Chris raises his hand for a shot.

"So why the 'somebody ran over my MGMT album' look, then?" John asks.

Chris looks at him blankly. "What?"

John's eyebrows tell him it's supposed to be obvious. "Why are you all mopey about wanting in Karl's pants?"

Chris grunts in disbelief. "Um, he's married?"

Zach laughs. Chris looks at him, wounded. Zach laughs again. "What are you, retarded? It's not like they're monogamous." He tosses out a hand gesture as if it's no fucking big deal, and really, it isn't in some parts of the world and Los Angeles is definitely that kind of part but _still, hello, Big Fucking Deal in Chris Pine Land._

Chris looks wordlessly at John, who nods confirmingly. Chris is aghast. And hella grumpy about it. "And you knew this…how? Are you—" He tosses out the same hand gesture mockingly; Zach snorts. "—too?"

John shakes his head. "I only have eyes for Kerri." Chris isn't sure whether he's relieved or disappointed, but then John keeps talking. "And occasionally Zach."

Chris jerks his head towards Zach, shocked as shit, but Zach just gives him a half-smile and shrugs.

Chris leans back in his chair and lets out a low whistle. "What the fuck do I know, man?"

Then Zach's demeanor changes entirely as he sees something over Chris' shoulder. "Hey, well," he says, catching Chris' wrist and attention, "you know I love you, right?"

"Yeah, buddy, I love you too, what's—"

"Then please forgive me."

"What the—"

But Zach's already standing, grabbing John by the upper arm and pulling him across the room towards the back door. Chris looks after them, totally nonplussed—

"Where's the fire?"

Chris is going to get whiplash tonight if shit like this continues. Because now there's—of course, fucking of course— _Karl_ , settling into Zach's still-warm seat, looking rumpled and unwashed and _tasty_ and Chris' tongue darts out to the corner of his mouth before he can stop it. "Hi."

"Hi." Karl's grin is easy. Duh. "How are you? Drunk yet?"

Chris shakes his head automatically, then stops. "A little. What the fuck are you doing here?"

Karl tilts his head a little. "It's your birthday. Where else would I be?"

"Oh, I dunno, home with sheep and family?"

Karl looks down with a small smile. "I was coming back tomorrow anyway…" He trails off, takes a drink.

"And…?" Chris prompts, sickly fascinated.

"And I got a message you might need some company."

Chris's mouth falls open. Well, probably already was open, but that's not the point.

"Fucking Quinto."

Karl's eyebrow goes up. "Well, I didn't think you guys were more than friends, but I can back off if—"

Chris has grabbed his arm before he's half way through the sentence. "No, that's not what I—" Then he realizes what he's done and oh Christ his face must be _flaming._

Then he realizes what Karl has said.

There's a pause as he tries to gather his wits. "It's just that—I didn't know—"

But Karl's speaking too. "—I reckoned you knew."

Chris shakes his head so adamantly he thinks he feels his brain make a slight _squish_ ing sound. "No way. I mean, you never—I just assumed—"

Karl's smiling again, like he knows something. He leans over into Chris' space, right next to his ear, and Chris might just stop breathing. "You know what they say happens when you make an assumption."

Chris pulls back, just a little, and turns, just a little. A smile tugs across his lips and his eyes drift down to Karl's mouth of their own volition. "What do they say?"

Karl dimples. "It makes an ass outta you… and umption."

Chris can't help it, he laughs. It's the drinks, it's Karl, it's being thirty, it's whatever—He tips his head back and _laughs_.

\---

Chris stops drinking after that. He wants to feel everything, remember everything the next day, the next millennium.

He wants to remember, for instance, the first time he feels Karl's hand on his thigh, under the table and over his jeans. He wants to remember hearing that timbre in Karl's laugh when Chris makes a joke and knowing, _knowing_ for the first time what it means.

He wants to remember the smell of Karl's breath, beer and cigarettes and sweetness, when he turns to Chris at the end of the night and says, "Walk you home?" He wants to remember how he himself is all elbows and knees the first time they tumble into bed, only to have his apology swallowed by Karl's kisses. He wants to remember the sound of his name on Karl's lips as he threads his fingers through Chris' hair and comes into his mouth, more beautiful than Chris has ever seen him.

But mostly, he wants to remember not being too much of a pussy to take chances. So, as Karl settles back into jetlagged, post-coital sleep, Chris shuffles out of the room to grab his new, and already especially beloved, guitar.

And if Karl falls asleep that night to Chris playing 'The Rainbow Connection,' well, that's nobody's business but theirs.

 _  
**FIN**   
_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to whoever made [this macro](http://pics.livejournal.com/thalialunacy/pic/002wg3yw). Sorry, Jude, for using your (and Jan's) awesomeness in vain. One line from _Snatch_. McCoy's is a real tavern, only it's in downtown Olympia, Washington. Which is nowhere near Silver Lake. [Breedloves](http://breedlovemusic.com/) do exist, and they are _magnificent_. One line from _The Long Kiss Goodnight_. Thanks to my brother and his guitar knowledge. And of course, thanks to Jim Henson… (although the version I have in my head is usually [Jason Mraz](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ggdoi0rgSjI), or [Iz](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V1bFr2SWP1I).)


End file.
